Before the Siege
by Lady Kaisa
Summary: She is no stranger to suffering, but even she needs a little help sometimes.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. The chances of me ever owning it are very, very slim. Almost... nonexistant, one might say._

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><p>The clouds drifted serenely across the night sky, casting patches of the land in darkness. Within one such area of shadow, there was a small, plain tent. It had been erected a good twenty yards to the east of a large camp's outer edge. Its distance made it obvious that the inhabitant desired at least the semblance of solitude.<p>

The silence of the night was occasionally broken by the sound of frantic footfalls as messengers raced through the camp, running as though their heels were ablaze, and as the final preparations for the following day were made. An army on the eve of a battle, though they do so silently and with discipline, is busy. Even those who have the luxury of retiring for the night are often restless.

The impending fear of death gripped each man who would fight, inviting in the dreaded questions: _What if I don't survive? My wife, my children – what will become of them? Will my brother, father, sister, mother survive? How can our family hope to make it though this?_

To the minds and dreams of the wounded, those who were incapacitated in previous skirmishes and battles came the flashbacks, the night terrors. They slept uneasily, waking with their skin slick with sweat, the sheets icy cold, and their injuries throbbing. The healers' soothing words and gentle touches did little to help them. Their minds buzzed with questions as well. _Who will join me in this cripples' guild? Who will lie in the next bed over tomorrow?_ And the healers, even as they try to help their wards: _How many will I be able to tear from Angvard's grasp? How many will I not be able to stop from passing beyond this world? What if they live and deserve death? What if they die and deserve life? Who will live and who will die?_

Few are they who do not, at some level, fear passing into the void. The fear of death is something which is hardwired into the human mind. Most who die are consumed by a gut-wrenching, terrible panic before they pass. And many who consider their own demise are overcome by terrible, paralyzing _fear_ that grips the lungs and make the heart pound, desperate to continue beating….

She was privy to it all. The fear, the worries, the pain. This was nearly unbearable for her.

Normal, day-to-day life with the Varden, even with the wounded in the healers' tents, was tolerable. On a good day, she could almost completely block everything out, even if she were in the very middle of the camp. On a good day, she could get close to one of the healers' tents without fear of paralysis or uncontrollable tears.

On a bad day, she would completely break down if she were in close proximity to more than a handful of people. Proximity was key to her ability to feel the fears and pain of others.

The very eve of a battle was not a good day. She had not left her tent since they had made camp here.

Tonight, she could not sleep, even though the herbalist had given her an assortment of sleep-inducing teas. She'd drunk the very strongest to calm herself and to keep at bay the feelings of pain. She could not feel the separate pains and worries and fears as sharply as if they were her own, but they were still there, and still too much for her to sleep. She dared not approach the camp to look for Angela – that would be too much for her. But at least the tea had made it so that she was no longer vomiting or so dizzy she couldn't focus her eyes.

She was lying on her small cot, curled into a ball under her thin blankets. Her violet eyes were open, staring at the ceiling of her tent. In her mind she heard her own words, proud and gleeful: _"If I must be different, at least let me keep that which sets me apart. As long as I can control this power, as it seems I now can, I have no objection to carrying this burden…"_

_That's the problem,_ she thought, shifting into a more comfortable position,_ I can't completely control it. Not with so many people…_ Indeed, the compulsion to protect the suffering had once been what had made her sick. But she'd never physically felt the fear and pain before; the impulse had been too strong. If not for it, perhaps she would have been able to feel the pain as she did now… _Ah, but if I had, I wouldn't have been able to protect anyone at all. A trade, _she thought. Then she laughed to herself, and out loud said, "Some deal!"

And yet she was no longer in mortal danger. Surely increased awareness of suffering was preferable to the urge to protect regardless of her own welfare. Still, who would have chosen to have this ability? Not she, nor any other sane person.

The flaps to the tent rustled, startling her out of her reverie, and she groggily sat up, her reflexes slowed considerably by Angela's herbs. She was not afraid – even with her senses dulled, she would have known if any normal person had approached her tent – and she had been expecting him to come, as he did every night.

It had been a bad day for her – therefore, as he always did on her more difficult days, he came in his cat form. The werecat paused for a moment after he entered the tent, then yawned and leapt up onto her cot, stalking up to her. She and he stared at each other for a moment, and then he stretched and lay down, curled up just as she had been before he'd come. She lay down again as well, winding her fingers into his fur, comforted by the feeling of it against her skin. Now that he was here, she felt as though she should try to sleep again. Actually, she was feeling quite tired, and her sense of the many individuals in the camp was fading…

She was asleep in seconds, a tiny smile on her face.


End file.
